Prayers of the Damned
by Moon Faery
Summary: When Heaven and Hell finally get around to ripping things apart, when nothing will ever be the same again, when the last straw finally comes... who will listen to the prayers of the damned? Slight CA


Prayers of the Damned  
Rating: PG13  
Series: Good Omens  
Genre: Angst/Romance  
Pairings: C/A, what else?  
Spoilers: Inevitable.  
Warnings: Shounen Ai (AKA light slash), angst  
By Moon Faery

Disclaimer: A statement created solely to save one's ass from becoming lawn for the proverbial legal mower. I do not own Good Omens - many people other than myself do, mainly Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. All materials are used without the permission of their various owners. The only gratuity I accept is verbal (or written), and money doesn't even begin to enter the picture. If it did, do you thing I'd be working at a thrift store?

Author Notes: I blame music, as usual. I heard "Don't take the girl," and thought the last chorus sounded almost Crowley-ish... I worked from there. The song was heavily modified for this, so I don't need it in the disclaimer. You'll know it when you see it though.

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The Hordes of Heaven and Hell fought. 

The Apocalypse had been a nice excuse, but it hadn't taken long before some genius realized that it wasn't needed. Within three days, humanity had been charred down to small, terrified groups scattered around the globe. Some sections of ground were so desecrated by immortal bloodshed that nothing grew, or would ever grow again. Demon and Angel blood ran just as red as mortal, but stained the ground more permanently than any mortal death had ever been able to.

Crowley observed all of this from behind the main lines of Hell's Army. He'd been held back from the fighting, to his relief and disgust. He'd spent so long with the Enemy, wink wink nudge nudge, that he must have had some valuable information. To valuable to let him throw himself on a blessed sword somewhere, or to risk him turning coat mid-battle. So he was kept close to the Dark Throne, watching as the armies of Heaven and Hell put themselves through the proverbial cheese grater.

He was trying very hard not to look at what sat on the Throne. God was, very noticeably, absent from the proceedings. Again. There were rumors that the Metatron claimed to be doing what he thought God would want, were he available and had all the facts. No one seemed to have mentioned that humans had been doing that since time began, and all it had gotten them were a lot of dead bodies. Crowley sighed.

It had been, excuse the term, a hellish three days, but the fight promised to end soon. Neither side could afford to continue with the amount of losses they were suffering. Billions of lives, and absolutely nothing would have been accomplished. No one won, nothing solved, and nothing to look forward to after it was over except perhaps more of the same in a few thousand years.

It was a waste. Even a demon could admit to that.

Aziraphale hadn't shown yet, and he'd been watching. Maybe the angel was still alive, and they'd meet after for drinks and talk about getting the humans back on their feet. They'd toss back whatever good wine had survived France's fall into the ocean and get back to the whole tempting and thwarting business. Maybe he was alive.

He had to be alive.

A white flag appeared, pushing forward through the mass of angelic fighters, stained red and brown, tattered almost beyond belief. Muddy-pale gold hair flashed somewhere under it, nearly hidden by the crowd. Crowley caught brief, blood-stained glimpses of a figure encased in armor that shone like gold but was almost certainly diamond. As the flag passed forward, the fighting fell silent as angels and demons alike paused to watch the latest development. Finally, the flag bearer broke through and stood squarely on the line that divided the two groups. Everything was dead, the moment artificially frozen.

Aziraphale didn't look bookish any more. It was the first thought Crowley was able to find in his head, and though it was completely stupid, it was also true. The wings were a major change, but one he had seen before, in all their fluffy white glory. Moreover, in the space of three days, the bookish, quiet Angel had developed muscles where Crowley was quite sure that he hadn't had them before. He had blood on him, and someone had found him another flaming sword. His eyes, though... His eyes were still the same, those soft, incredible eyes that said that he loved everyone and thing, and only wished they could stop hating themselves long enough to understand why he loved them.

He was _alive_. Crowley let himself breathe again.

"Parley!" the Angel cried, voice ringing in was that would have made the Bible's copyright lawyers reach for their calculators.(1)

"Crowley," the being on the Throne murmured. It was a lovely sound. Soft, rounded, warm and fuzzy at all the right moments. The voice was persuasive. It whispered, deep in the depths of your being. It was the kind of voice expected of the Morning Star, the brightest and most beloved.

Crowley didn't look. "Yes Lord?"

"Go. Parley with the Angel." The Lord of Lies laughed, deep and low in his throat. Crowley's toes curled, a shiver of near orgasmic proportions rocking through his spine. "Yes, parley. And come back successful."

"What do you wish me to gain, my Lord?" _Don't look don't look don't look..._

Again, that sensuous, sinful laugh. "I'm sure you'll know, my dear."

He couldn't help himself. He looked.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was the Morning Star.

Satan lounged casually on his throne, hair a bright, blinding auburn that fell down his shoulders like, Crowley shuddered at the cliché, liquid fire. Tanned, strong, so perfect it made his teeth ache from thinking of appropriate adjectives. His eyes were a solid cobalt blue, the kind poets write sonnets to, but...

Aziraphale held sorrow in his eyes, and endless love. The Angel had seen all of eternity's darkness, it's evil and hatred, and found some unnameable something that made it all worthwhile. Lucifer's eyes were were the same. They'd seen everything, but all that Aziraphale treasured they'd had ripped away. They'd looked closely at the silver lining and found out it was aluminum foil. Lucifer had shattered-mirror eyes, and each reflection was worse than the last. And behind it all he was still screaming, while his face smiled gently, knowingly, out at the rest of the world.

Crowley looked away.

He could feel that overpowering gaze on him. "Yes, I think you'll know," came the Voice. "And you'll win. If not... You'll wish you were dead. We all will. Now go."

The demon nodded and pushed forward through the waiting demons. He was in full regalia, which really wasn't all that different from Aziraphale's armor. A little more tarnished, a little less ornate... It was all the same. His eyes were slits, his wings were black... But that was it.

He was able to pinpoint the exact moment that Aziraphale recognized him. The angel's eyes widened, and his back straightened. Crowley could have sworn that he saw a smile begin on the angel's lovely face, but it was gone before he could be sure. The angel stood, awaiting him, shoulders back and chin lifted.

His chest tightened at the sight, but he didn't smile.

They stopped, five feet away from each other. Both sides sized them up. There wasn't a single being there that didn't know about their part in the first almost-Apocalypse fiasco. Both sides were waiting for an opportunity to attack again.

Crowley nodded. "Angel."

Aziraphale somehow kept his face grave. "My dear demon."

This time, Crowley smiled. "We both know what we're here for, so let's get down to it."

The angel smiled his beautiful, loving smile and opened his soft, kissable mouth to reply. Then paused, mouth open, eyes wide. Slowly, like the sun setting on a clear day, he fell forward, a white arrow between his wings, blood staining the ground under him.

Someone pressed the play button on the battle. It began again, whirling around them, metal screaming.

On the ground, Aziraphale bled.

Crowley stared down at his fallen friend, mind locked in a terrible cycle. _In the back,_ he thought, lungs and heart shutting down while he processed the information. _In the _fucking_ back!_ Before he could scream, speak, cry, laugh, die, Aziraphale was in his arms, blood dripping over the tarnish of Crowley's armor, face white under the tan and growing paler.

His eyes were closed.

"No." The sound was quiet, almost inaudible under the sounds of celestial war. It was a familiar voice. It was his own. He tried it again. "No."

His eyes were closed.

_Not right it can't happen shouldn't happen, not like this not ever not now not ever not ever not ever ever ever..._

So this was what Satan felt like, behind those broken eyes. He'd been right. He _did_ wish he were dead. Crowley's hand found the angel's cheek.

He could hear himself screaming, though his lips never moved.

Oaths, whispers, wishes — all died on his tongue. Lucifer wouldn't help. He couldn't help. Aziraphale was dying, and no one could help. No one cared to help. He could only do one thing, and God wouldn't listen to the prayers of the damned.

But it was the only thing left to him, and Aziraphale was growing lighter and lighter with every moment...

Crowley bowed his head over the angel's cooling form...

And then he prayed. He prayed with the passion of one who knows what's really up there, and doesn't give a damn until it's too late.

"I never asked for anything. When you said 'be' I was, and then you said 'fall' I fell and never looked back, never asked why. But this is taking it too far, you son of a bitch. If anyone deserves this, it's me, and not him. Not him." Every word was an oath, a prayer, a damnation, a blessing. He vibrated with purpose. His throat closed, yellow eyes burning. "Take me, not him. Take me, you mother fucking, piss-poor excuse for a God!" He choked. Aziraphale was almost gone. "God, please..."

A tear splashed down on the blood-drenched ground.

The world stopped turning.

**I did not intend this, Children.** The voice didn't boom. It was incapable of booming. Instead, it _sung_, rocketing down into their souls so deeply that it seemed the words were merely their own thoughts, old knowledge dredged up from the sea sludge of their being.

Crowley looked down. Azirphale opened his eyes and smiled, squeezing the demon's hand on his cheek, whole face soft with the glow of love that was aimed only at Crowley.

**This must not be.**

And it wasn't.(2)

(1)Had the Bible been copyrighted. Or had lawyers. Or had those lawyers survived, which is very possible. Cockroaches can survive almost anything after all.

(2)Interpret this however you will.


End file.
